


Sunday Morning Spill

by LizaCameron



Series: Seven Days Series [4]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Liza's Josh/Donna Seven Days Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-02
Updated: 2004-11-02
Packaged: 2019-05-30 13:36:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15097754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizaCameron/pseuds/LizaCameron
Summary: Donna, a horse and a hospital.





	Sunday Morning Spill

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

 

 

 

**Sunday Morning Spill**

**by: Liza C.**

**Character(s):** Josh, Donna  
**Pairing(s):** Josh/Donna  
**Category(s):** AU, Humor, Romance  
**Rating:** YTEEN  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything; this is for fun and no money. Beta'ed by Kim.  
**Summary:** Donna, a horse and a hospital.  
**Author's Note:** Seven Days One Fall Series #004

"I'M OKAAAAAAY!" I yell as loudly as I'm able, which is fairly loud considering the fact that I've just had the wind knocked clean out of me, and I'm, well, really not okay… at all. Everything hurts; pain is rippling from multiple sections of my body as the initial shock of hitting the ground wears off. But of course, I've got to make sure that nobody within earshot worries about me too much.

"I'M NOT DEAD!" I force the words through my diaphragm, despite my already-overtaxed lungs.

In the sixty seconds or so that it takes my companions to dismount and run over to me, many, many things run through my head. Am I really not dead? Does Heaven look like a quaint country lane in Virginia? Is every bone in my body broken? I also think I mutter the F-word ten to twenty times. Which is really not like me, but at the moment I find it oddly therapeutic. Once I start to get over the scare of the fall and determine that I am indeed alive, and able to wiggle all fingers and toes, I realize that more than any physical ailment I'm currently experiencing, I'm mortified. Not just embarrassed, but rather, I am filled with good old-fashioned mortification.

I've just been pitched, feet over head, off of a 18-year-old mare called Pokey. I think I saw my life flash before my eyes. Well, at least the Cliff Notes version of my life. Mostly it was my work life and… you know… it doesn't matter what, or rather, who, flashed in front of my eyes. It doesn't! Just because you see someone's face during a terrifying moment does not mean anything of significance… because if it did that would mean… never mind what that would mean. I can't think about that right now. Anyway, in those few airborne seconds, after I was launched helplessly off of Pokey's saddle, besides seeing someone's face flash before my eyes, I was also mindful that I should do everything possible not to land on my head. Thankfully, I didn't. My shoulder took the brunt of the impact and the rest of me flopped to the ground like a sack of potatoes a second later. And people saw it happen. You might, at this point, be asking what I was doing on a horse in the first place. And my answer would be: I'm an idiot and Margaret made me do it.

Apparently, Margaret loves to ride horses. And it's sort of my fault we got the opportunity to do it just a stone's throw away from D.C. I never should have introduced her to my now-ex-roommate's parents when I gave them that tour of the White House last year. Because if I hadn't, she wouldn't have gotten friendly with them and then dragged me out to their farm on a Sunday morning in November to ride horses along with her buddies, Suzie from Political Affairs and Dale from Human Resources. How did she get me to go? Well, she guilted me, saying it would be weird if I didn't go since I know them best, even though she made the arrangements with them all on her own.

As I look up, I see three concerned faces peering down at me. I make it clear that I'm just stunned and sore and that an ambulance is absolutely not necessary. To prove this point, I force myself to sit up. Yeah… that hurts. I might utter a few other choice expletives under my breath. As I sit here, pretending to be just fine, they quickly decide that Margaret will stay with me while the other two take the horses back to the farm and get the car. Which is less than a quarter of a mile away. Yeah, that's how far we'd gotten when Pokey freaked out. If I could concentrate I'm sure this would seem like a fine plan to me.

It takes almost twenty minutes for them to come back for us. In that time, I'm able to catch my breath and fully assess my injuries. I landed on my upper back and left shoulder, so those two areas, obviously, hurt like bloody hell. It's hard to twist my back or to move my left arm or neck too far in any direction without my muscles, you know, getting really pissed off.

Once the other two return, they all decide to cart me directly to GW. There are actually hospitals that are closer, but for insurance purposes and convenience I ask them to take me there. Someone really needs to fix health care in this country! I'm gonna talk to someone about that first thing tomorrow. Despite my protests that not only can I walk, but that my neck is loosening up so therefore I'm not seriously injured, they conclude that I should be as immobile as possible during the ride. After they confer and chatter and search the car, they come up with what they think is a suitable alternative to emergency transport.

The good thing is that with the low traffic of a Sunday morning, it should only be a 50-minute drive to GW. As I stare at the ceiling of the small SUV, I lament the ridiculousness of my current situation; this wasn't how my Sunday was supposed to be.

My Sunday was supposed to be me sleeping in. It was supposed to be a jog, and making pancakes. Lounging around my apartment until about half past two, at which time I would have headed to the W.H. for Josh's meeting. He was even going to let me sit in on it and play a role! I was actually excited to work today. Instead, I'm headed for the hospital in the most embarrassing fashion possible.

They have me positioned horizontally-- flat on my back with my legs squinched up at the knees. Now, if that's not bad enough, I'm seat-belted to my ex-roommate's mother's spare ironing board. You heard me. I'm told it's to ensure the stability of my back and neck during the ride. So here I lay, strapped to the top of an ironing board, in the backseat of Dale from Human Resource's bright yellow Hyundai SUV, as Margaret peers over at me from the cargo area in the back. I'm fairly certain it would be impossible to make me less comfortable. Seriously, does it get any more humiliating than this?

***

"I called Josh while you were in X-ray," Margaret announces once they wheel me back to the emergency room.

"What?!" I screech and try to sit up off the exam table. Ow! That hurts. Gently, I lower myself back down and take a deep breath. Why would she call Josh? Anybody but Josh!

"Why?" I ask with what I'm sure must be pleading eyes. It's not that I am suddenly anti-Josh or anything, but he has a tendency to make fun of me. And despite my pain, more than anything I don't want Josh to know about my unfortunate equine incident this morning. On a horse called Pokey. As I think I mentioned before, it's embarrassing.

Margaret crinkles her forehead at me. "Weren't you due at work this afternoon?"

"Yeah…" I sigh.

"So, I called him to let him know you wouldn't be coming in. Shouldn't I have called to let him know that?"

"Sure, yeah…" I concede. She does have a point. While I don't think I'm mortally wounded, I'm probably not in any shape to go in to work this afternoon. But my other concern is that now that Josh knows I was hurt, he's probably working himself into a lather worrying about me. That's the other reason I didn't want him called. Because the truth is that I'm certain I'm going to be fine, and I don't want him making himself crazy over some bumps and bruises. Bracing myself for his reaction, I carefully try and loll my head slightly towards her. I'm pretty unsuccessful as my neck moves less than a centimeter. "What'd he say?"

"He said no problem; don't worry about working this afternoon."

I lay perfect still a moment, staring at the ceiling; fighting, frankly, very hard not to let my emotions show. That's it?! That's all he said. Was I wrong to think a man who would bring me a frappuccino and newspapers on Sweetest Day would be concerned about my well-being? Perhaps I overestimated the extent to which he doesn't want to see me injured or, you know, dead. We'll see whose face I see next time my life flashes before my eyes! "That's it?"

"Uh… I guess he said to tell you to feel better."

Feel better? Feel better!? "Was… was he upset?" I can't believe what I'm hearing.

"Don't worry, Donna, he didn't seem mad that you're not going to make it to work this afternoon."

"Great." Huzzah! He's not upset that I'm missing work! Jerk! Yeah, Josh being mad that I'm missing work is not what I was worried about. No need to let Margaret know that, though. You know, I could be laying here with a herniated clavicle or a multiple compound laceration of the vertebrae or something and it turns out he couldn't care less. I mean, I can barely move my neck. This could be a serious spine, muscle, tendon calamity; I was thrown off a huge powerful horse at full gallop! It wouldn't be out of line for him to be just a little concerned about me.

Now I'm in a mood. I'm in a mood and the nurse just came in. I plaster on my fake perfect-patient smile. After informing me that the doctor will be by shortly to give me the results of my X-ray, she hands me a paper cup with some pills. Finally! I've been waiting for some muscle relaxants or some painkillers you can only get via prescription or… at any corner drug store in Canada, since the moment I arrived at the ER. The Midol that Margaret fished out of her purse and gave me in the car, frankly, hasn't helped. Although I don't have any symptoms of PMS. Except that I'm in a mood. But that's because of Josh, not because of… never mind. I don't even ask what the pills are before downing them quicker than a 17-year-old mare called Pokey bolts at the sight of a fluffy bunny rabbit.

As I relax back onto the exam table after eagerly swallowing the sweet, sweet drugs, I hear it. Some sort of commotion coming from the direction of the waiting room. Raised voices; a man's voice. What kind of an ass bellows in an emergency room? It doesn't take long to get an answer to that question.

A minute later, he comes bursting into my curtained-off exam room. Once he enters and sees me lying on the bed, he stops cold. He stares at me in silence for several seconds, letting his eyes roam up and down my body. Since I had to don one of those awkward backless hospital gowns, I should probably at least feign modesty under his intent gaze. But the truth is that I'm so glad to see him that, despite the backdoor draft, I forget that I'm not wearing much.

"Was that you yelling?" I finally ask when his gaze makes it back up to my eyes.

"I don't yell. Are you okay?" He crinkles his forehead as he makes his way over to my bedside. Once there, his scrutiny doesn't end; he just continues to stare at me intently.

"Yeah…"

"Anything broken?" His voice is laced with anxiety. That's better! Not that I want Josh to be anxiety-ridden or anything… you know what I mean.

"I don't think so, but the doctor should be in to give me the final word soon." I give him a sort of pathetic pout. What? Since he's here, I might as well get a little sympathy. And, you know, I am happy to see him. Even though it only lasted a few minutes, thinking that he didn't care was really no fun at all.

"What hurts?"

"This shoulder and my neck and back…" My breathing hitches a little as he runs the knuckles of his hand gently along the exposed skin of my upper arm. The motion feels… not altogether terrible.

"Margaret, your friends out there-" He's speaking to Margaret, but he's still looking down at me.

"They work at the White House, Josh," Margaret interjects from the foot of the bed.

"They do?" He looks confused for a beat before continuing. "That explains how they knew who I was… whatever, they told me where Donna was when that warden at the desk refused to give me any information. Anyway, they're getting kinda antsy. Why don't you all take off; I've got it from here."

Margaret looks at me and then back to Josh, whom I don't think has taken his eyes off of me since he entered. "Are you sure, because it's not a problem for me to-"

"Is your car here?" He asks me, cutting her off.

"No, they picked me up this morning."

"Okay, then. So I'll take you home." He finally glances over to Margaret. "Thanks for calling me."

I give Margaret a small nod and that seems to be what she needs to convince her it's okay to go. "Okay, but if you need anything, just call."

Once she leaves, he pulls up a stool and looks down at me with a grimace. I don't know why, but having a grimacing Josh sitting by my bedside makes me feel… better. He's all tenderness and concern and it makes me feel a little squishy inside. Or maybe it's just the mystery meds taking effect. He's about to say something; I bet he's going to tell me how glad he is that I'm okay.

"What in the hell were you doing horseback riding?!" He demands heatedly. Okay, that was not what I expected. Apparently, it's his eyes that are all tenderness and concern; his mouth is a whole other matter.

I guess I better start at the beginning. "You remember how my ex-roommate's parents have a little farm in Virginia?"

He's looking at me blankly. Sheesh. Why do I continually hold out hope that he listens to anything I say? I'm beginning to think he tunes me out more than he tunes me in. For some reason, this leaves me feeling deflated. Well, more deflated than my humiliating experience on Pokey or the joy-ride on an ironing board in the back of the yellow Hyundai already left me. I let my eyes close in defeat.

"Outside Fairfax…"

I quickly lift my head up so that I can examine him curiously. Of course, I do it too fast and my neck muscles howl in complaint. I ignore the pain and eye him skeptically. "You remembered?"

"I remember you going there for some anniversary party or something…" He remembered what I said. He remembered what I said! Why am I so excited to learn he actually listens sometimes when I speak? It shouldn't be that big a deal.

"Margaret wanted to ride; she set it up, so I went along."

"Margaret rides horses?" He says it as if it's the most unlikely thing in the world, like I just told him that Margaret likes to frequent the international space station on her day off.

"Yeah… why?"

"She seems too... I don't know… prissy."

This makes me laugh. Partially because it's true and partially because hearing Josh say the word prissy is funny… and well, also because I'm half-high on some unidentifiable pharmaceutical cocktail. It occurs to me I should probably have asked what they were giving me. For all I know, the pills were horse tranquilizers from Mexico.

"So, she dragged you to Virginia, put you on a horse, and almost got you killed." His lips are pursed. It's not his most attractive look. I weigh the pros and cons between telling him this and defending my morning pursuit.

"I used to be an excellent horsewoman," I assert indignantly, choosing to defend myself, even though I realize I have very little evidence to back up my claim.

"'Used to' being the operative phrase. And when were you ever a horsewoman? I thought the only people who rode horses were cowboys and 13-year-old girls who have trouble making friends."

Huh? That deserves a big, fat whack upside the head. And I would totally wail on him right now, I really would, but it's not worth the pain the arm/shoulder movement would cause me. Also, even if I could stand the pain, I don't have full rotation. A proper whack requires full rotation. However, if I could just get him to the end of the bed, I could kick him. My legs are working just fine.

"Could you move to the end of the bed?" I smile sweetly at him.

"Why?" He crinkles his brow at me in a cute little scowl. Wish he wouldn't do that. It'll be harder to kick him if he looks cute.

"Because you deserve to be physically punished for that comment. And my legs are working better than my arms."

"Physical punishment…" He wags his eyebrows at me. "I'd be up for some physical punishment, but not… uh… here in the hospital, Donna."

I ignore his suggestive comment and his smirk. I'm good at ignoring them; I've had a lot of practice. "I'll have you know I rode horses when I was a 13-year-old girl."

"You were a friendless horse-riding adolescent? I should have figured…"

"I had friends!"

"Sure. Of course you did," he says with a placating tone. "But how did you have horses to ride?"

"I grew up on a farm!"

"Are we going to go through this again?"

"Fine, I had *friends* who grew up on farms, and I rode their horses. I was an excellent horsewoman," I repeat emphatically.

"Apparently, you weren't that excellent of a horsewoman. If a horsey, whom I'm told is called Pokey, can get the better of you."

There it is. The mortification rearing it's ugly head again. Certainly, my face must now be as red as a beet. I'm no longer concerned about trying to kick Josh; now I'm plotting how I'm going to sufficiently punish Margaret, for not only dragging me to Virginia in the first place, but for calling him. "How do you know that?"

"Margaret's friends, whom I've never seen, but apparently work for the Executive Branch, told me about Pokey… and the bunny."

Not the bunny, too. I close my eyes, but he's not done. I can tell he's suppressing a full laugh. Mostly because I can hear his half-snicker.

"What?" I ask defensively without opening my eyes

"You were thrown from a horse named Pokey."

"Pokey is deceptively fast and agile."

"Well… he was running from a bunny. That does certainly require speed and agility." Without looking, I can tell Josh's dimples are out in full force. Bastard.

"Pokey's not a he."

"He's not?" The amusement in Josh's voice only grows.

"No." Damn, why can't I lie?

"Pokey is a girl?"

"Yeah, so?" I open one eye so I can look at him.

"You let a girl horse who, if human, would be eligible for social security benefits, throw you?"

Now who told him Pokey was old?! Don't people know when to shut up! "I didn't *let* her do anything. She didn't consult me in the matter before she bolted."

"From a bunny."

"From a large, menacing rabbit!" I open both eyes now so that I can effectively glare at him. "And you could be nicer to me, you know. I'm scraped…" I point to my left elbow. "…and bruised and possibly broken. I had a terrible fright and my injuries could be serious, you know." I look away from him in a huff. Or as much away from him as I can manage with a stiff neck.

A second later, I feel a slightly damp, not-unpleasant, soft pressure on my arm. I look over to see his head bent over me and his lips pressed against the skin above the bandage on my elbow. What in the heck just happened? No, seriously. Josh just kissed me! Well, he kissed my elbow. "What are you doing?"

"Kissing it and making it better." He looks at me sheepishly. And just like that, I forget his assy comments and turn my attention to trying to keep from melting into a big puddle right on the spot.

***

The doctor has given me the news. No breaks, no serious injuries. The diagnosis is a strained thorax, whatever that is. She's written a prescription for more drugs. And I've been given orders to ice every so often and stay reclined to at least a 45-degree angle as much as possible for the next 24 hours. I've been warned that I will be stiff and sore for quite some time and to take it easy, but that there should be no long-term repercussions. Very good news.

Once the doctor leaves us, Josh shoots me a questioning look. "So, should we take you home?"

"Yeah… uh…" I look down, finally remembering I'm mostly naked, save for a thin backless smock. Using my good arm, I point to a chair in the corner. "My clothes are over there."

Wordlessly, he goes over and grabs the neatly folded pile-- Margaret's handiwork, no doubt-- and brings them over to the bed. "Should I step out?" His voice is full of adorable uncertainty.

"No." My answer comes out a little more quickly than I intended. "You can… uh… just turn around."

The clothes I was wearing during my ill-fated equine adventure are dirty and muddy, especially my sweatshirt. The jeans are not much better, but it appears Margaret brushed off the denim as much as possible, so they are salvageable. Josh's back is to me now as I study the jeans. And, yes, I think I've just encountered problem number one. There is no pain-free way for me to reach my feet. There's really no pain-tolerable way to reach my feet, either.

"Uh, Josh."

"Yeah?" He questions, but doesn't turn back around.

"I may need some help."

"Oh… sure… with what?" He keeps his back to me.

This is ridiculous. "You can turn around." He complies; now he's facing me, but looking nervous. "I can't reach… it hurts to bend… my jeans."

"You want me to put your jeans on you?" His eyes grow so wide I'm afraid he's going to sustain an ocular injury. At least we're at the hospital.

"I would like help with them, yes."

"Are you sure we shouldn't call a nurse?" His eyebrows are raised, almost to the ceiling.

"If you don't want to help me…"

"No. I'll help you." He quickly crosses back to the bed and picks up the jeans. He holds them out in front of him, sort of sizing them up. A second later he drops his arms and looks at me for help.

"Just put them on my feet and pull 'em up."

Biting his lip, he tentatively guides my sock-covered feet into the legs. I'm still lying back on the bed with my torso only slightly elevated; I've found the less I move, the better. Slowly, he pulls the jeans up my calves; I can't help but shiver a little when his hands brush against my thighs. I'm so intent on staring at him I don't realize when he comes to a standstill as he reaches my hips.

"Uh, Donna."

"Yeah?" He's really sexy when he's dressing me. Is that something I should think about my boss? That he's sexy when he's dressing me? Have you ever thought that your boss was sexy when he was dressing you? What do you mean your boss doesn't dress you?

"I can't… you'll have to… help." Josh looks at me imploringly; he's earnestly trying to do a good job with the jeans.

"Oh…" I look back down and realize he's gone as far as he can without my participation. I lift my bottom and he pulls the jeans up and over my hips and into place. I'm pretty sure I flashed him, well, a lot during the whole process. That's all right; I'm just wearing white cotton underwear, nothing to have a heart attack over. Although he looks a little pale. My hospital gown is now bunched above my waist; Josh, intent on his job, starts fumbling with the buttons on my jeans. Okay, that might be a little too helpful. "I can take it from here." I press my lips together to keep from grinning.

"Right." He jumps back slightly and if I'm not mistaken, I think he's rather red. He busies himself readying the rest of my clothes and I can see him eyeing the mud-splattered sweatshirt scornfully. "You can't put this back on."

"I don't really have any other option. It's just till I get home."

Josh stands there a minute staring at it, and then shakes his head. "No, you have another option." Without any warning, he shrugs out of his jacket, pulls his black sweater over his head in one swift movement, and hands it to me.

I just stare at him. He gave me the shirt off his back. Or, in this case, the sweater. I think I'm gonna cry. And before you look at me like that, he's not standing in the hospital naked. I wish. Hmm… that right there must be the Mexican horse pills talking. Anyway, he's still wearing the white t-shirt that was under the sweater.

"You're giving me your sweater."

"Loaning you my sweater. Yes."

"It's your favorite sweater."

"How do you know that?"

"I know things." I look at him softly and chew on the inside of my cheek. "The shirt off your back…."

"Uh… huh…" He just shifts his weight from side to side, looking uncomfortable.

"Jooooosh… that's so…"

"Don't… just… just put it on and let's get out of here." He picks up the rest of my clothes and turns so I can put the sweater on in relative privacy. "Um, Donna?"

"Yeah?" I ask without looking at him. Now I'm focused on the task at hand-- trying to figure out how I'm going to get this sweater over my head without lifting my left arm. It's not going to be easy, but it's a lot bigger than me, so that helps.

"There's… uh… one other… garment we forgot."

"What?" I look up to where he's standing. Oh, lord. He's holding his hand out to the side of his body and, you guessed it, my bra is currently dangling from his index finger. I forgot that I had to take off my bra earlier for the X-ray, damn under wire.

Well, this is a lovely addition to the never-ending parade of pain and humiliation that my Sunday has become. My boss is standing in a hospital exam room, fondling my Victoria's Secret bin-sale special. It's fuchsia with neon green zebra stripes. Like I said, I got it on sale. You know how those bin sales are, you get hopped up on the high of 75% off and you don't realize that what you're buying is really fugly. "All I wanted was to have some pancakes today…"

"Huh?" Josh turns partially towards me so I can see his profile. My only comfort is that he appears to be blushing, too.

"Nothing."

***

After a stop at the pharmacy, Josh gets me home around two o'clock. The narcotics are doing their darnedest to knock me out. I sit in a chair, barely keeping my eyes open while he brings blankets and pillows from my bedroom and fixes up the couch for me. We get my jeans off… yes, I said we; he helps again. But I'm unconscious before he can object to me sleeping in his favorite sweater.

***

When I wake up, the throbbing pain that seems to engulf my back and neck when I try to move reminds me of the events of the day. "Josh…"

"Yeah… hey, how ya' feeling?" He leans forward from his place in the chair next to the couch.

"What time is it?" I rub my eye with my fist to remove the sleep.

Glancing at his watch with a frown, he replies, "About five."

"Have you been here the whole time?"

"Yeah. Let me get you some ice." He gets up and heads for the kitchen.

"What about your meeting? You had that three o'clock…"

"We did as much as we could over the phone and I told 'em you'd reschedule next week," he calls from the kitchen.

"But we were meeting with them on Sunday because there was no other time-"

"Don't worry about it, we'll find time." He's standing over me now, helping to adjust the ice behind my neck and shoulder. That really does help. The ice, I mean, not Josh adjusting it. Although I gotta tell you that's not bad, either. "Do you need anything? You must be hungry. You didn't eat lunch, did you?"

Did I eat lunch? I think back. My brain is getting a little clearer now. "No… I guess I could eat."

"Alright… food…. I can do that... piece of cake. What do you feel like?"

"I don't know. There's some stuff in the fridge or the take out menus are…"

"Next to the microwave… I know." How does he know that? But I don't have a chance to ask because he's already in the kitchen. And I'm still feeling groggy.

Josh had been gone awhile when I smelled something… something burning. I might have dozed off again there for a minute or two, but now I'm wide awake. Yes, it's definitely been a significant amount of time since Josh went foraging for food. Too long. He's up to something. "Josh…"

"Yeah…" When he calls back from the kitchen, he sounds a little… distracted.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Give me a minute; I'll be right there…" This doesn't sound good. However, if I was really all that concerned, I'd get up and check. But I'm comfortable on the couch and since even reaching over to the coffee table for my water is a chore, I choose not to go inspect his activities in the kitchen.

A minute later he appears in the living room. "Are you okay? Do you need something?" I study him with disbelief. Are the drugs affecting my mind again? Shouldn't they have worn off a little? I ask because it looks like there's… it couldn't be… does he have flour in his hair?

"What are you doing in there?"

"Nothing." He's lying. I can tell by the pitch of his voice that he's lying.

"Nothing? Why do you have flour in your hair?" I'm trying not to laugh.

"I don't." He tries to look appalled at the suggestion.

"You really do." I point to the mirror on the wall behind him.

He turns to study his reflection for a moment. "Oh… well, things might have gotten messier than I anticipated."

"What things got messy? What's going on in my kitchen, Joshua?"

"You said you wanted pancakes," he states in a matter-of-fact way, like it's obvious what he's been doing.

"I did?"

"Yes, earlier at the hospital. You said you wanted pancakes. You like pancakes, don't you?"

"Yeah, I love pancakes. You made pancakes?"

"I'm making them. Yes."

"Do you know how to make pancakes?"

"I'm an outstanding cook, Donna," he replies smugly. A little too smugly.

I don't respond verbally; one, because I'm too bowled over by the fact that he's making me pancakes and two, because with the flour in his hair and the curls around his ears, he looks… a little like George Washington… is it wrong that I don't find that unattractive? Not that I find Josh attractive… per se.

"There was pancake mix sitting on your counter and I had to add like two ingredients; it's not rocket science."

"Okay…"

"So do you want one?"

"Yes." It takes me a second to answer and when I do, it comes out as a squeak. What's wrong with me? Well, besides getting thrown off a horse and having my boss make me pancakes all in one day.

Several minutes later, Josh appears, with a tray laden with pancakes, syrup and orange juice.

I look at my plate with not a little trepidation. The pancake, and I use the term loosely, is charred on one side and gooey on the other. I take a bite anyway. As I chew, Josh takes a bite off of his plate. It only takes a split-second for him to react.

"Ugh! These are disgusting! We can't eat these." He moves to set his plate on the coffee table. "I'll go order a pizza."

I look at him as he takes my plate from me. I don't protest, but I have to disagree. It's the best pancake I've ever had.


End file.
